Ring Game Read Online Free Page B

remaining in this universe. But it was better than any of his other ideas.
    After a time, the question began to grate on him. He tried to push it aside in favor of other mental exercises, but the lipstick print kept reminding him that his car had been kissed. He finally turned on the windshield washer and watched the lipstick smear, then disappear. His mind set free, he began to brood about other things. Beaut Miller muscled his way back into Crow’s thoughts, leering and flexing his ridiculous arms. As soon as Crow recognized Beaut, he propelled his mind in other directions. Fishing, poker, highway signs, the way the engine made the hood vibrate, how his body felt after a good workout, music …
    He’d listened to both of his Led Zeppelin eight-tracks too many times. He had to find some new music, but eight-tracks were as outdated and hard to come by as leaded premium gasoline—another requirement of riding the Goat. Maybe he should sell it and get another car. Something that would get better than nine miles a gallon. A Mercedes, a Land Rover, a BMW convertible—even a Volkswagen would be nice. Something with a cassette deck in it, or a CD player. Anything but an eight-track. He supposed he could take it out, replace it with a cassette deck. But the eight-track was original, it had come with the car. It was part of the whole classical sixties shtick that the Goat represented. If only he could find some decent tapes. Something besides Robert Plant’s screeching vocalizations.
    He thought about Laura Debrowski.
    She had called from Paris a week ago, all chipper and bright.
    Crow had asked her straight out, “So when are you coming home?”
    The line crackled. “I don’t know. I want to get this CD nailed down. These guys are good, Crow. I’m gonna make them the first French post-grunge superstars.” She was talking about Les Hommes Magnifiques , the band she had discovered when she and Crow had flown to Paris last April for an open-ended vacation.
    Crow had lasted less than two weeks in the land of baguettes and Camembert before heading back to the states. Debrowski stayed in Paris to work with Les Hommes . Their parting had been awkward. Crow didn’t like to think about it. The phone conversation had been awkward, too.
    “Hey, did I tell you I moved to a new place?” she said.
    “No, you didn’t. You’re coming back sometime, aren’t you?”
    “Why? You miss me?”
    “I’m keeping busy.”
    “Playing cards?”
    “Some. So, things are going okay with that band?”
    “Pretty good. How’s Milo doing?”
    “Pretty good.”
    After they exchanged a few more conversational packets and said good-bye, he realized that he had failed to get her new phone number and address. Or she had failed to give it to him.
    Crow downshifted and depressed the accelerator, felt himself sink back in the seat. He watched the speedometer needle swing across the display. Ninety, ninety-five. He upshifted. One hundred, one-o-five, one-ten … there, he felt the fear hit him—visions of a blown tire, a tie rod giving way, wildlife jumping into his path. Crow held the speedometer at 110 for half a minute, feeling alive, then lifted his foot from the gas. The big engine slowed the car quickly to a sedate sixty-five. Hadn’t blown a tire, cracked a rod, hit a deer. Hadn’t got nailed by a trooper. Had he broken his thought pattern? For a brief moment, he could not remember what he had been thinking about. Then it came back.
    Debrowski. He was still thinking about her. She would’ve liked that burst of speed, he thought. She was a fast car type of woman. Crow smiled at himself. Ah well, better to brood on her than on Beaut Miller. He imagined the two of them meeting. He did not think that they would like each other.
    These days, thinking about Debrowski on the other side of the world brought sadness and loneliness. Thinking about Beaut and Bigg made him agitated and tense. The stew of emotions blended imperfectly; he arrived at the